Unless you're a die-hard devotee of the band, The Aggrolite's latest offering skips around too much to be truly satisfying, flitting from one sound to another and floundering for a definite identity.

Reggae Hit L.A.

Reggae Hit L.A. is kinda like that girl you knew in college who, although she had her fair share of "experimentation" those first two semesters, never really "found herself" and came dangerously close to flunking out. Fresh off of backing Tim Armstrong on his solo album, The Aggrolites get back to work cranking out reggae/ska/punk blends on Reggae Hit L.A.. This time, the group has changed up their formula, incorporating more R&B and soul-flavoring to the mix. While the mixed bag of surprises yields some strong songs scattered throughout, the end result of the disc sounds like the Aggrolites are floundering for a new style that they're still unsure of.

The band's latest direction of soul-reggae is undoubtedly the highlight of the album with tracks like the surprisingly soulful "Faster Bullet" with its reggae-laden Motown groove and the album's title cut channeling James Brown and milking extra mileage from the Aggrolite's horn section. Beyond the superlative blending of voices with "Let's Pack Our Bags" -- sounding as if the band dusted off some Platters records -- and experimental pieces like "Baldheaded Rooster (Chapter 3)" with its kicky blend of reggae with synthesizer and sitar thrown in, the Aggrolites go overboard with instrumentals that become a repetitive drag at several turns on the album.

Skating the edge of a near identity crisis, Reggae Hit L.A. proffers evidence that on this go 'round, the band can't decide whether they want to be a reggae jam band, Sublime minus the ripping rock edge, or neo-Motown style reggae. While the disc offers a significantly more energetic alternative to ambient music, something with a bit more octane to crank in the background, there's not much that hops directly up from the disc and cracks you cold in the jaw. Instead of fleshing out a definitive new direction or cultivating a heartier blend of their own style, Reggae Hit L.A. shows the Aggrolites dabbling a little too much without commitment and not achieving what could have been a solid new sound.

White Hills epic '80s callback
Stop Mute Defeat is a determined march against encroaching imperial darkness; their eyes boring into the shadows for danger but they're aware that blinding lights can kill and distort truth. From "Overlord's" dark stomp casting nets for totalitarian warnings to "Attack Mode", which roars in with the tribal certainty that we can survive the madness if we keep our wits, the record is a true and timely win for Dave W. and Ego Sensation. Martin Bisi and the poster band's mysterious but relevant cool make a great team and deliver one of their least psych yet most mind destroying records to date. Much like the first time you heard Joy Division or early Pigface, for example, you'll experience being startled at first before becoming addicted to the band's unique microcosm of dystopia that is simultaneously corrupting and seducing your ears. - Morgan Y. Evans

The year in song reflected the state of the world around us. Here are the 70 songs that spoke to us this year.

70. The Horrors - "Machine"

On their fifth album V, the Horrors expand on the bright, psychedelic territory they explored with Luminous, anchoring the ten new tracks with retro synths and guitar fuzz freakouts. "Machine" is the delicious outlier and the most vitriolic cut on the record, with Faris Badwan belting out accusations to the song's subject, who may even be us. The concept of alienation is nothing new, but here the Brits incorporate a beautiful metaphor of an insect trapped in amber as an illustration of the human caught within modernity. Whether our trappings are technological, psychological, or something else entirely makes the statement all the more chilling. - Tristan Kneschke

"...when the history books get written about this era, they'll show that the music community recognized the potential impacts and were strong leaders." An interview with Kevin Erickson of Future of Music Coalition.

Last week, the musician Phil Elverum, a.k.a. Mount Eerie, celebrated the fact that his album A Crow Looked at Me had been ranked #3 on the New York Times' Best of 2017 list. You might expect that high praise from the prestigious newspaper would result in a significant spike in album sales. In a tweet, Elverum divulged that since making the list, he'd sold…six. Six copies.

Under the lens of cultural and historical context, as well as understanding the reflective nature of popular culture, it's hard not to read this film as a cautionary tale about the limitations of isolationism.

I recently spoke to a class full of students about Plato's "Allegory of the Cave". Actually, I mentioned Plato's "Allegory of the Cave" by prefacing that I understood the likelihood that no one had read it. Fortunately, two students had, which brought mild temporary relief. In an effort to close the gap of understanding (perhaps more a canyon or uncanny valley) I made the popular quick comparison between Plato's often cited work and the Wachowski siblings' cinema spectacle, The Matrix. What I didn't anticipate in that moment was complete and utter dissociation observable in collective wide-eyed stares. Example by comparison lost. Not a single student in a class of undergraduates had partaken of The Matrix in all its Dystopic future shock and CGI kung fu technobabble philosophy. My muted response in that moment: Whoa!

Allen Ginsberg and Robert Lowell at St. Mark's Church in New York City, 23 February 1977

Scholar Christopher Grobe crafts a series of individually satisfying case studies, then shows the strong threads between confessional poetry, performance art, and reality television, with stops along the way.

Tracing a thread from Robert Lowell to reality TV seems like an ominous task, and it is one that Christopher Grobe tackles by laying out several intertwining threads. The history of an idea, like confession, is only linear when we want to create a sensible structure, the "one damn thing after the next" that is the standing critique of creating historical accounts. The organization Grobe employs helps sensemaking.